


Captured at Sea

by lioness47



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Disturbing Themes, Dom/sub, Dominance, F/M, Mind Games, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Original Character(s), Rape/Non-con Elements, Season/Series 04, Smut, Spanking, Submission, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2019-11-07 13:52:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17961800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lioness47/pseuds/lioness47
Summary: After the purple wedding, Littlefinger's ship sails from King's Landing, carrying Sansa to freedom. Or so she believes. When they're set upon by slavers, Lord Baelish devises a plan for them both to escape with their heads intact... a devious scheme that depends entirely on Sansa's shameful submission.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> While Sansa is 16 or so when this takes place - and Lord Baelish is in his 30s - I prefer to think of her a few years older/him a few younger. It makes no material difference, but I wrote it imagining a slightly closer match in years.

All the misery of King’s Landing was in the past. 

Sansa’s shoulders relaxed as she sailed beyond the outermost reach of Blackwater Bay. Standing on the prow of the ship, the wind whipped her face. She inhaled deeply the scent of the sea, licked the salt on her lips. 

It tasted like freedom. 

That wretched capitol was behind her. Nothing lay ahead but the ocean, and the possibility of a better life. She no longer believed in the heroes and knights of songs, but, pressing forth on open water, she could dare to _hope_ for a chance at happiness, at love. 

“My Lady,” Lord Baelish approached from her right. “Taking in the sea air?” 

Sansa cocked her head to the side, studying him. 

“Why did you _really_ rescue me?” she asked, continuing the conversation they’d begun when departing. 

“I loved your mother. In another life, you could have been my daughter,” he reached out and twirled a red tendril of hair between his fingers. “We sail for the Eyrie. I’m to wed your Aunt Lyssa. Perhaps, we can all be the family we were always meant to be.” 

Sansa brightened to hear Littlefinger planned to take her to the Vale. “I’ve never met my Aunt Lyssa,” she replied, smiling. But once the initial surprise wore off, she considered his explanation. Odd, at best. More likely, a thinly-veiled diversion. Was he testing her? 

She didn’t trust Littlefinger, as she once did, when she was stupid young girl. 

“Shall we dine together in my cabin?” he asked, proffering his arm. 

Sansa allowed him to escort her below. 

#

As they polished off the last of the blackberry wine, shouts from above suddenly rang through the air. Sansa jerked and dropped her gingerbread. 

Littlefinger brought a loosely fisted hand to his mouth, surprised, but did not leap to his feet as Sansa did. For a few tense seconds that felt like eternity, they waited. Then a crewmember burst into the room. 

“Lord Baelish, a ship nears. White sails. Yunkai.” He hurried back out the door. 

“Man your stations!” came a shout, from above.

Sansa wrung her hands. “Petyr?” 

Littlefinger didn’t move, didn’t react much at all. He only closed his eyes and inhaled slowly, as if deep in thought. 

A heavy boom sounded, rocking their ship. 

“What’s that?” Sansa cried, head snapping toward the noise as she clutched a beam on the wall. 

“We’re under attack.” Littlefinger rose quickly, crossing the room to where she stood.

“Sansa,” Lord Baelish laid his hands on her shoulders. “If we are going to make it through this ordeal, I need you to do exactly what I say. Do you understand?” 

“What do you mean? What’s happening?” 

“We’ve been set upon by slavers. Every man on deck will soon be a dead man.” 

Sansa shook her head vehemently, picturing the nice sailor who just came into their room. _No, it couldn’t be._

“I have a plan to get us out of here. Without meeting our doom at the bottom of the sea.”

Littlefinger shook her shoulders, roughly, bringing her out of a daze. 

Sansa swallowed, admonishing herself. She needed to take an active part in her salvation, and she needed to be quicker-thinking than this to come out unscathed. She nodded once, sharp, willing courage into her words. “I’m ready.” 

But, _oh._ She was wrong. 

“These men will capture you and sell you to a pleasure house, or worse. I am going to make them believe that that is my very same intention. That I have stolen you from a lord’s manor. You are my captive, heading for a slave auction in Lys. There are many brothels there, I know them well. I need you play along. _Listen,_ Sansa,” he urged, squeezing her shoulders so firmly it hurt. “You must do whatever I say, no matter what.”

His words sent a shiver down her spine, part fear, part foreboding. 

From above, the sounds of fighting, of men screaming, reached their cabin. 

“I can’t,” Sansa protested. 

“Do you have a better idea?” Littlefinger asked, impatient. “How should we escape with our lives and win passage back to Westeros?”

“I – I don’t know,” she stammered. “But why must I pretend to be a...” Sansa looked down at her feet. “Whore?” 

“The term is bed slave,” Littlefinger corrected. “Whore implies freedom, and payment, neither of which you’d receive.” 

The sound of footfalls came louder, closer. Time was running out. 

Sansa scrunched up her face, fighting a sob. 

“The men boarding our ship would do worse than Joffrey ever had, worse than you can imagine. You could find yourself with child by the morning, or forced to live out the rest of your days as the concubine of any one of these sailors. Until he tired of you and sold you to someone else.” 

Sansa felt as if the rollicking ocean would make her sick, and she’d never been seasick before. She’d come _so close_ to freedom. Only to be captured again. It wasn’t fair. Nothing in this world ever was. 

“It is important that you do everything I say, without question. Do you understand me?” Littlefinger repeated. 

Sansa nodded, tears welling. 

He grabbed a linen from their table, dabbed her eyes. 

“I do not wish to see your tears, but cry if you must. Cower, tremble, blush. It will only make your role more convincing. Whatever you do, do not appeal to me for mercy as your friend and savior. You will not receive any. From this moment on, you are my prisoner.” 

Sansa’s lip quivered. “Petyr-”

He gripped her chin, eyes stern. “You may call me Lord Baelish.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Your men are dead,” the pirate captain sauntered into their cabin with the full authority of a man who already owned the ship. “Except the few who chose to live another day, in chains.”

His eyes immediately flicked to Sansa, ran her up and down. He smiled. 

“Valor Morghulis,” Littlefinger replied, with a small shrug of one shoulder. 

Dead was better. Those who lived risked disputing his story. But he’d deal with one inconvenience at a time. 

Lord Baelish’s nonchalance caught the pirate’s attention. In another life, the sailor could have been handsome, but the beauty of his pretty mouth was quickly snuffed out by the man’s gruff accent and crude manner of speaking.

“Yes, all men must die. You included.” He raised a dagger, pointed it at Sansa. “Her, we can put to better purpose.” 

The men around him laughed. 

“Then I see we are of a similar mind,” Littlefinger announced, raising his voice to gain attention. “About the girl. About my life, I beg to differ.”

“You can beg all you like. Go ahead. It will amuse the men to watch you plead Captain Serrel, as he takes your head,” he said, referring to himself. “Won’t make any difference.” 

“Forgive me,” Littlefinger protested, his smile widening. “Begging isn’t actually quite what I had in mind. I find bargaining to be a much more fruitful endeavor for all parties.” 

“And what have you that we’d want in any bargain, eh?” Serrel scoffed. “We’ve taken your ship. We’re about to take this whore. You want us to ransom you back to some _perfumed lord_ in Westeros?” 

“Bargaining isn’t quite what I had in mind, either,” Littlefinger hedged. “More like, _partnering.”_

Sansa didn’t follow Lord Baelish’s reasoning, but the way he led the pirate on a sort of conversational chase at least kept them alive so far. 

“Partnering?” Serrel repeated with scorn, tossing the word, the idea, aside. 

Littlefinger only proceeded as if the captain were enthralled by the suggestion. 

“I’ve taken this lady from a great lord’s castle in Westeros. She’s untouched, ignorant of the world, the ways of men. She’ll fetch a great price as a bed slave,” Littlefinger shared a lascivious smile. “I’ve set up an auction in Lys many _perfumed lords_ will attend. Escort us there safely and we’ll share in the profit she brings.” 

To Sansa’s amazement, Serrel tilted his head, listening. 

“If the scheme is a success, we engage in others, bringing two, sometimes, three virgin ladies across the narrow sea,” Petyr continued. “I will procure them from Westeros, assuming the risk on land. You will sail us to Essos, assuming the risk at sea.” 

Serrel looked contemplative, and Sansa’s heart beat so wildly she wondered if others could hear it. _Petyr is doing it,_ she thought, with gratitude and even admiration. He was her rock on the rough sea, where she clung for safety yet again. Let the other men crash and break around him. She had her rock to save her. 

Finally, the pirate asked, “if that was your plan with this one, then why were you heading North?” 

“We aroused suspicion in our departure,” Littlefinger replied with ease. “I thought to sail north first, in an effort to confuse any would-be pursuers. I also hoped to avoid any pirates such as yourself, by crossing the Narrow Sea in a less well-trafficked area, before turning to follow the coast down to Lys.” 

Littlefinger gave a slight bow of the head. “I might have succeeded it the former, but I see I was not quick enough to achieve the latter.” To his credit, the words did not ring false. He infused them with the right amount of begrudging respect and guile, one-cunning-lord-to-another. 

“Better we take the girl and sell her ourselves. After we’ve had our fun with her,” Serrel growled. 

“For the price her maidenhead could fetch, fun could be had with a far greater number of women,” Littlefinger advised. 

“Alright, let her keep her cunt, there’s plenty amusement to be had with her mouth or… other parts.” 

Sansa felt dizzy. 

“I’d advise against that,” Lord Baelish cautioned, almost bored with explaining. “I don’t trade in the base pleasures of the simple man. This is a noble lady,” he said, moving closer beside Sansa and running a finger down her neck, toward her breasts. She gulped visibly and so frightfully, if it were a part of the act, Littlefinger couldn’t tell the difference. 

“I procure for clients a fantasy, entire. Not just a maidenhead to breech, once and done. I offer a highborn to debase, a blushing lass to corrupt and humiliate, for the refined lord who seeks a virginal flower he can instruct in submission to all the ways of pleasing her master. If I deliver a whore, cynical and hardened by prior use, I devalue my product.” 

Serrel titled his head back, mouth gaping in a laugh. 

“You are a smart one, aren’t you?” He unstrapped a bottle from his waist and took a swig. “How do I know you’re not lying?”

“You’ve got nothing to lose. Accompany us to Lys. If I don’t fetch the price I say for the girl, or if I try to betray you, kill me and sell her yourself.” 

“We sell to Yunkai. We’ll take her there instead,” Serrel said. 

Littlefinger kept his gaze level with the pirate. That would not do. He had no contacts in Yunkai. 

“The pleasure houses of Lys are far more renowned for their training of bed slaves, and I already have buyers lined up,” he said, striding with familiarity quite close to Serrel. “I am certain we could get triple the price if we sail there.” 

“Lys,” the pirate said, considering. “Alright. But we split the profits at sixty percent in my favor.” 

Lord Baelish chuckled, appreciatively. “I can see I’ve struck a deal with the right pirate.” 

“Pirate. Slaver. Smuggler.” Serrel turned the corners of his mouth down, as if unimpressed by his own words. “I go where the gold goes.”

“You’ve got a deal,” the sailor accepted, and Sansa thought she’d faint with relief. “And none of my men will touch the lass,” he shouted the last part louder, ensuring the crew pressed behind him would hear. 

Serrel grinned, flashing tiny, square teeth, and Sansa suddenly felt faint once more. “But that don’t mean we can’t look at her.”

 _Oh no._

“Bring her above deck. Without the fancy clothes. We can talk more about our future partnership with something pleasing on view.”

 _No, please, no,_ Sansa’s mind protested. 

“We dine with entertainment tonight, men!” Serrel shouted. 

The cheers were a death knell to Sansa. She fixed her eyes on Littlefinger, round and pleading. 

“It would be my pleasure,” he replied smoothly, smiling on one side of his mouth. Sansa felt sure her ears weren’t hearing properly. 

Littlefinger bowed as men retreated from their cabin, but Sansa did not stop to appreciate the sparing of her life, her flower. She looked around the room in panic, as if some secret escape hid beneath the floorboards. 

Lord Baelish spun back to her, a stranger. Gone were the niceties, the kindnesses he paid her – whether genuine or false – in the past. He’d assumed his role, and he didn’t waiver in the slightest, even alone. 

It didn’t matter that they _had_ been left to themselves. She’d bear the eyes of every sailor soon enough, and, somehow, alone with only the heat of Littlefinger’s gaze, the tension, inexplicably, _rose._

He might be the rock she clung to. But she could see now she’d be standing on it naked, for all to admire. 

“Please, don’t make me, Lord Baelish,” she begged. 

“Do as you’re told, girl.”

Sansa, froze, too frightened to move. 

Littlefinger took a step in her direction and she could scarcely breathe. This couldn’t _possibly_ be happening. 

“Take your clothes off,” he commanded, gently, but firmly. “Or I’ll have to come over there and remove them myself.” 

Sansa reached for the ribbon on the side of her gray dress, but her hands shook so much she couldn’t work the ties. Littlefinger gently brushed her hands aside and untied them. She didn’t know whether to be grateful or cry. 

“Lift your arms,” he said. 

“Please,” Sansa repeated. Lord Baelish said nothing, but at the hard look in his eyes, she obeyed. 

In one move, he raised the dress over and off her body, taking her shift along with it. 

_This isn’t happening,_ she swore, even though she felt the chill of the sea air against her bare body. 

Lord Baelish brought his hands to her waist, fingertips grazing against her skin. Her breath hitched and her body gave an involuntary shiver at his touch. 

“Step out,” he said, pulling down her smallclothes. 

Sansa did as she was told, trembling, closing her eyes in shame. 

She stood for several seconds, one arm crossed against her breasts, the other low, protecting her flower, before she dared to look once more. 

She nearly matched Lord Baelish in height, but at the moment, that was all. He wore layers of robes, buttoned up to his throat. She, without a shred of protection over her body, exposed to his eyes, felt all the more naked because of it. 

How could she be stripped before Littlefinger, a man she hardly knew? Would the gods never end the wicked twists of fate that delivered her helpless to a lord’s whims? 

“Put your arms down at your sides,” he whispered. 

“I can’t,” she protested. 

He raised his eyebrows, archly, and somehow, slowly, she found the will to comply. 

Completely exposed, a tingle began in Sansa’s rounding breasts, growing into a tender ache. She felt the her nipples rise and harden. 

Sansa may not have known a man intimately, but she was no idiot. Mortified, her body responded to just Lord Baelish’s _eyes_ upon her bare skin, as if he coaxed her breasts round and firm with _touch._

But did he know? Sansa dared a glance at his face. Did his mouth twitch, or was it her imagination? 

Sansa tried to will fortitude into herself to get through the ordeal. That night, and all the nights, until they returned to Westeros. This was just looking. Her maidenhead, her body, was safe. It could be so much worse. No one would touch her. 

_Well, no one but Petyr,_ she thought, remembering his fingers grazing her belly. 

Yet Sansa couldn’t help herself whisper, “Lord Baelish, please don’t make me go out there.”

She might as well have truly been a whore for all the pity he showed her. 

“You will go above deck and you will stand naked until I tell you it’s time to return to our cabin.” 

Dread filled Sansa to endure, bare as a bedslave, the stares of an entire crew of foreign sailors. But the distinct fright clenching her stomach at Petyr’s words grew from the last part -- the comprehension that she’d have to return, that night and likely all others. 

_Stripped and alone._ To Lord Baelish’s quarters.


	3. Chapter 3

The gods could only imagine his view. 

Sansa walked in front of Lord Baelish, leaden feet ascending the stairs, eyes screwed shut. A child’s ploy at keeping out the world. 

She couldn’t close her ears.

Lecherous calls and whistles filled the air. 

“Open your eyes, sweetling,” Littlefinger whispered in her ear. 

For a moment, she refused, then, remembering she needed to trust him to keep them both alive, she slowly lifted her eyelids. 

Heat rose to her cheeks as she met the eyes of the crew. Sansa ducked her head, hoping her long hair hid some of her body. 

Littlefinger took her hand, guiding her toward the mast where he deposited her, unceremoniously. Except for the pause he took to sweep her hair back on either side, exposing her breasts like merchant’s wares. 

Hot fury at Petyr rioted within her, all the more frustrating because she was entirely dependent on his whims. _But Littlefinger never acts on whim, only with careful calculation,_ she thought. It didn’t lessen her anger. 

There was a time, as a child, she’d have wanted to pitch herself into the sea. Now Sansa focused her will on shutting out the world. It was the smartest way to bear this type of ordeal. It could always be worse. No one beat her, as Joffrey ordered, in court. No one would rape her, as those horrible men attempted, in the riots at King’s Landing. 

No matter how many lustful glances turned her way, Sansa endured, the way she endured all trials. Stoically. Only once in the humiliating trial did she cast a glance at Lord Baelish, deep in conversation as he sipped his wine. Her protector amongst the pirate heathens. Due entirely to the fact that he was more dangerous than them all. 

What did that ultimately mean, for her? 

#

The evening’s revelry wound down when a balding man stumbled toward Sansa. He stood so close, she could smell the rum on his breath. He grinned, full of malice, flashing a tooth blackened from rot in the back of his mouth, and reminding Sansa of those men in King’s Landing who threw her to the ground. 

“Ain’t you a pretty thing?” he asked, spittle hitting her cheeks. The man reached out and laid a hand on Sansa’s bare belly, reaching around to grasp her waist and pull her toward him. Before she knew what she was doing, Sansa smacked the sailor across the face, putting her full strength into it. 

_Stupid._

Quick as a cat, he smacked her back, with what felt like most of his. 

Sansa’s head fell to the side and she tasted blood. By the time she looked back up, the drunken sailor thrust a knife toward her throat. 

It was the last thing she saw before fainting. 

#

Sansa opened her eyes, the room slowly coming into focus. The memory, however, rushed back to her and she shot up into a sitting position. 

She had been deposited on the bed in a strange cabin, a roughspun blanket covering her body. Lord Baelish sat beside her, posture effortlessly erect, as if his tiny stool he used could be comfortable, or even stable, as they rocked with the ocean. 

“Where am I?” she asked. 

“Our new cabin. The captain has claimed our old one for himself,” Littlefinger replied dismissively, untroubled. But Sansa saw this room was considerably smaller, and contained only one feather bed. 

“I’m… sorry, Lord Baelish,” she said, hoping he’d take its meaning for both nearly breaking their cover and for swooning like an idiot. 

“Hold a dagger to any man’s throat who’s never before held a sword, and plenty will hit the ground just as soon as you the first time,” Littlefinger advised. “You’ll do better the second.” 

Sansa couldn’t imagine facing a blade again. But that could be in store for her in Essos if they didn’t escape. 

“And in this case, girlish swooning helped save your life. You created quite a commotion. That and, the events which followed. I received word there’s been a brawl on deck. One of our captured men was thrown overboard in the fight.” 

Sansa's shoulders fell, head cocked as she quietly studied Petyr. 

“One of the men from our crew who knew we were headed to the Eyrie?” she asked, slowly. 

Littlefinger gave a small nod. 

“You killed him,” Sansa declared. 

“Oh? And how would I do that? I’ve been down here with you the whole time.” 

“I know it was you. You paid someone to start the fight or, or, somehow initiated it.” 

Lord Baelish almost smiled out of one side of his mouth. Almost. 

“Let’s not worry about the past, shall we? We have enough work to do for the future.” 

Sansa felt the hairs on her neck raise at his words. 

Littlefinger templed his fingers, leveling her with his gaze. 

“I promised Captain Serrel you’d serve us a private supper in his chambers tomorrow night. In the same state of undress as you were this evening.”

_Oh. That was all?_ Sansa thought. It could have been worse. 

“To give you fair warming, I plan to order you spread on your knees, onto the table before us, to please the captain. He has a rather sadistic streak.” 

It was. 

Lightheadedness swirled though Sansa again. 

“You’ll need to appear more docile than you did this evening. A girl kidnapped for slavery, alone on a ship with frightening men, wouldn’t be so brazen as to disobey commands and strike her captors.” 

“I am trying, Lord Baelish. You can’t expect me to act so easily against everything I’ve been my whole life,” Sansa argued, the words pouring out fast. “It’s one thing to lie, but I can’t just make myself do these things like a… like a whore.” 

“You’re right,” Littlefinger conceded, with a wave of his hand, and Sansa felt unease at his tone. “You’ll need to practice. Please, my dear, bring yourself up onto our table now. I need to trust that you will obey, when the time comes.”

Sansa shook her head rapidly. “Please, I-”

“If you can’t obey me and do this alone, how will you do it in front of others?” 

Trapped, Sansa struggled to find an argument against his logic. 

“It’s for your own good,” Littlefinger added, rising off the stool. With a slight bow, he held his arm out, indicating she should climb up onto the small table in the middle of their very small quarters. 

Sansa wanted to scream, she wanted to cry. She wanted to be anywhere else but there, be anyone else, but herself at that moment. Clutching the itchy blanket tight around her body, with dread like a pit in her stomach, Sansa slowly climbed onto the wooden table, supporting her weight on her hands and knees. Her only consolation - the room was dim.

“Remove the blanket,” Littlefinger said, gently, but firmly. 

A pause. Then, with a groan of protest, she let it go. 

Sansa felt the cool air on her most private areas, but she didn’t know how much Littlefinger could see. Her hair curtained either side of her face, and she was grateful for the cover. She focused on the dancing shadows the candle played upon the floor. 

“Good, now spread your legs.” 

Sansa thought she’d die of humiliation at the words alone. 

Spoken by Littlefinger, her mother’s friend, her only friend in the capitol. Did he command his whores as such? Inspect them this way in his brothels? 

“Pet- Lord Baelish, please, _no,_ ” she protested. 

“That is exactly the kind of disobedience we need to eliminate. Do you wish to live, to return home in one piece?” he asked in a clipped tone. “We need to convince these men, every potential buyer in Lys, that you’re my captive for auction. Better you be my fake one than their real one. This is how we survive. We’re not going to fight them, we’re going to fuck them. That’s what I know, that’s what I am. And only by admitting what we are can we get what we want.” 

_And what am I?_ Sansa thought. 

“Spread your legs,” he repeated. 

Scarcely breathing, Sansa parted her thighs. 

“Wider,” Littlefinger commanded. 

With another whimper, Sansa spread them as much as she dared, which wasn’t much, but enough to display every part of her anyway. 

Littlefinger circled her, slowly, she heard light sound of his feet upon the floorboard, the swish of his robes, felt the air around her shift. 

_Gods, when would he stop? What could he see?_

It happened again, the heat of his gaze seared every part of her body like little fires upon her skin. 

With her shame came anger. The spirit she’d been missing. Sansa wasn’t a stupid girl anymore. Yes, Littlefinger devised a scheme for them to escape. But she had to suffer all the humiliation. While he… he had the pleasure of seeing her this way. 

Sansa found her tongue, hurled the words slowly. “I think you like this, Lord Baelish.” 

“It pains me to see you this way, Sansa.” 

_Liar._

_We’re all liars, every one of us is better than you._

“I don’t believe you. I’m not the same girl I was when we first met in King’s Landing.” 

“Oh, I know you’re not.” 

“That’s not-” Sansa cursed herself. But his words stirred a curious warmth in her belly. Petyr stood in front of her now, and Sansa titled her head up to look at him, faking a boldness she did not feel. 

“I know what you peddle in your brothels. I know the… perversions some men have.” 

“Do you?” A faint smile played on his lips. 

“I do.” 

“Then give me another option.” 

Sansa searched, as if the answer would appear from their cabin, before letting her head collapse back down. “I – I don’t know.” 

“Stay like that until I tell you to get down.” 

Sansa fought the urge to scream, to jump off the table just to spite him. She heard rustling behind her. Was Petyr getting undressed? Her heart thudded, fearful he’d approach her and… 

Instead, she heard the creak of the bed against his weight. 

“You may come down, sweetling,” he whispered. 

Sansa didn’t need to be told twice. She jumped to the floor, covering herself with her arms. 

Littlefinger was in bed, covered halfway with the blanket. He sat slightly propped, chest exposed. 

Sansa had seen men half-naked men before, but most of them didn’t look like Petyr. He wasn’t broad and hairy, like so many laborers at Winterfell. He wasn’t scrawny like a little serving boy, either. His body was lean, but firm, almost like an acrobat. Enough muscle appeared, even in rest, to hint at descent from a sellsword, at a man who could wield a dagger if needed -- but not so much to suggest a man whose days were ruled more by weaponry than politics. 

Did he mean for her to sleep with him? 

“Lord Baelish. I cannot share a bed with you,” Sansa said, despite what just happened and still covering her naked body. 

“Then you’re welcome to sleep on the floor,” Littlefinger replied, with some impatience. “I would offer to myself, but how would it look if someone came in, to find you like a princess in the bed, and me like a dog at your feet?” 

Once again, Sansa couldn’t find a way to dispute his reasoning. She pursed her lips. Littlefinger never forced her to do anything, physically, but he always seemed to wield logic against her to get her to do what he wanted. 

Scuttling crab-like toward the bed so as not to reveal more of her flesh than necessary, Sansa reluctantly climbed onto the far side and quickly pulled the cover up over her. 

Lord Baelish blew out the remaining candle, plunging her, naked, into the darkness beside him.


	4. Chapter 4

Lord Baelish did not _once_ turn his body toward Sansa. She might as well have been sleeping next to a septon, or some honorable knight, from the songs. 

Not that it bothered her, of course. She felt nothing but utter gratitude at her luck, of course. She just found it curious that Littlefinger hadn’t tried to press himself against her.

Especially because, he seemed just as desirous to touch her as Captain Serrel right now, remarking upon the pink of her exposed flower, until a hot blush crept right up to her ears. 

As promised, Lord Baelish ordered her up upon the table – once he and the captain feasted upon generous portions of salt pork and baked apples, which Sansa served like a naked chambermaid. Along with pouring plentiful cups of Dornish red, causing the captain to become increasingly drunk. 

Sansa steeled herself throughout. Petyr wasn’t a man of idle threats, she knew the ordeal was coming. Lord Baelish and the captain inspected her as if she a Ghiscari bride, and they her female relatives. On her hands and knees, displayed like merchant goods once more. 

Head down, she listened to the men talk.

“We’ll bring Lysini whores to Westeros on our return trip,” Littlefinger advised the captain. “I own several brothels where we may employ them.” 

“More mouths to feed in passage,” Serrel grumbled. 

“Alone at sea, I’m sure your men would pay handsomely for an hour with any one of the girls. Or you could simply withhold some of their wages for the pleasure. In the end, you’d come out with a profit.” 

Serrel laughed. “I’m glad I didn’t kill you. That’s a fine idea. Perhaps we should sell slaves to ships directly. One or two girls contracted to service men on a long voyages. Crew could line up, take turns.” 

“Perhaps,” Littlefinger replied. 

They moved onto pear brandy, and Serrel’s attention moved from business back to Sansa. 

“We can’t touch the pretty lass,” he lamented, almost as a question. Sansa did not see Littlefinger’s reaction with her hair covering her face, but she guessed he denied the request with a shake of his head. She saw glasses lift from the table beneath her and heard the men sip the brandy. 

Sansa found it strange that though shame reddened her face as the captain, a stranger, looked upon her, it was from _Lord Baelish_ whom she most wanted to hide. 

“What about her?” Serrel asked in a gruff voice. “We can’t touch her, but can she touch herself?”

Sansa’s heart began to beat rapidly, like a caged bird fluttering against her chest to escape. It was almost painful. 

“I don’t see why not,” Littlefinger replied, and Sansa was certain she’d misheard. “Turn around, my dear. Lie on your back. Play with yourself.” 

No. She _couldn’t_ have heard right. 

“I – I’m sorry?” 

“Lie on your back and touch yourself,” Littlefinger whispered the words, but there was nothing soft about them. 

In the quiet that followed, Sansa understood he meant it. Her breathing came fast and shallow. 

“No, Petyr, please – my lord, I can’t. Don’t make me.” Sansa sat back on her legs so fast, she knocked the captain’s brandy onto the floor.

The glass shattered, and Littlefinger closed his eyes, slowly. Sansa could almost say he looked pained, if Lord Baelish had such emotions. 

She knew she’d made a terrible mistake. Probably several. 

When he reopened his eyes, Littlefinger once again wore the mask she couldn’t see beneath, betraying nothing, leaving her feeling isolated.

Sansa’s eyes grew round, pleading up at Lord Baelish. 

His silence frightened her more than anything. 

Until he spoke again. 

“My lord,” he addressed the captain in a polite manner, but his words carried ominously over Sansa. “Would you be so kind as to hold this whore down while I teach her a lesson?” 

Littlefinger looked back at Sansa. “Bend over the table.” 

Still she could not obey. 

“No, please, my lord…” 

Littlefinger did not respond, only swept aside his robe, revealing his dagger beneath. 

Suddenly fearing he’d cut her, Sansa scurried off the table, but she saw she was mistaken when he simply removed the blade from its scabbard and deposited it on the chair he’d been using. 

Instead, he unstrapped his belt. 

Folded it in half. 

Understanding began to dawn in Sansa. 

Before she could move or even think, the captain grabbed her arms and pulled her down roughly onto the table. His big hands held her wrists so tight that Sansa knew she’d never escape until the men wanted to let her go. 

“You will learn to do as you’re told,” Littlefinger said, voice low. He brought his arm back in a high arc Sansa could not see, but she heard the smack of his leather against her bare ass. 

Then she felt the sting. 

When it hit her brain, she cried out, more from shock than pain. 

Once Littlefinger had her attention, the next stroke came twice as hard, a bite that made her jump and sob. 

"Please stop, I promise I’ll listen,” she said in a rush, terrified about what was to come, how many times he intended to smack her. 

But Lord Baelish only brought his arm back and belted her again, this time low on her ass. Then again, in the same spot. 

Sansa burst into tears and begged him to stop, not caring how loudly she pleaded, not caring if she announced her shame to the entire boat. Lord Baelish continued to punish her, she lost count of how many times his belt smacked her cheeks. Pointlessly, she struggled against the captain’s hands, kicked her legs wildly. She never imagined a simple spanking could hurt so much. 

While Sansa bucked and wailed, Littlefinger doled out the lesson in the same matter-of-fact manner as he might balance the ledgers back in King’s Landing. He wasn’t the type to get his hands dirty, but he was the type to survive as necessary, and covertly best other men while doing so. Serrel and Sansa left him no other choice. 

Sansa promised to do as she was told, to obey, to be a good girl. Anything she could think of, anything she could manage between her sobs, to stop his repeated blows. 

She did not know how long it went on, barely cognizant of when Lord Baelish finished. Her face was soaked, streaked with tears. 

“If you disobey, you will be punished,” he replied, voice hard. “You are no longer a lady in your father’s keep. You’re a whore, a slave. Do you understand?” 

Sansa mustered what little strength she had left into her words, and still they came out barely above a whisper. “Yes, my lord. I will obey you. I’m a whore and a slave.” 

_I’m a stupid girl who never learns,_ she thought. 

“Good,” Littlefinger replied. 

“If you’ll excuse us for the evening,” he said, giving a slight bow to Captain Serrel. “I think I’ve worn the girl out, and would like to return her to our cabin, where she can think over her new place in this world. I believe we’ll have a more obedient bedslave in the morning.” 

The captain lifted a glass to Littlefinger, bowing his head slightly in return. “Your methods are quite effective. I look forward to a long and bountiful partnership.”

Still bent over, Sansa had an eye-level view of Serrel's lap. He could barely keep his hands from stroking his straining manhood. 

She wiped her nose as she stood back on wobbling legs. A quick nod toward the door from Lord Baelish, and she scurried out of the room, caring little about her nakedness, only wishing the pain in her bottom would subside. 

She scarcely noticed Lord Baelish following close behind her, scarcely noticed her feet taking her in the direction of their room, scarcely noticed anything but the persistent pain and unbearable humiliation she’d just endured. 

But nothing escaped Lord Baelish’s notice. 

Even that which, he suspected, caught up in the shock of was just transpired and consumed by the sting and shame, this sweet summer child was yet unaware. 

Once she saw that he didn’t mean to cut her, once that initial terror subsided… Littlefinger caught the glint in the folds between her legs. 

He noted, with interest. 

When he disciplined her with his belt, it wasn’t just her face that was wet.


	5. Chapter 5

Back in their cabin, Sansa immediately donned her faded white shift. Then she spun on bare feet, lifted her chin, and quietly glared at Petyr. 

There was no question Littlefinger admired her quiet tenacity, the way it carried her through one trial after the next. What he didn’t like was the walls she put up. For everyone else, yes. However, they needed to work together. 

She’d been busy in King’s Landing. Building a fortress around herself, bigger than the capitol, more impassible than the Eyrie. 

But not for him.

“You didn’t have to do that. You had a choice,” Sansa said, pointing her finger down for emphasis. 

Littlefinger clasped his hands in front. “Yes, I had a choice. I could have brought you back here, punished you in private. But it would have been half as convincing and I’d have had to strike you twice as hard, so that your cries could be heard through the cabins.” 

Lord Baelish took small steps toward her as he spoke. Too close - Sansa always thought he stood too close. As if he owned her personal space, had a right to invade it. 

She felt a bit flustered at his words, and now he was making her feel… strange… with his nearness. 

“You beat me,” Sansa said, unable to think of anything more with Petyr standing inches from her.

“Beat you?” Littlefinger asked. “Will you carry scars? Permanent injury? Did you truly fear for your life? Yes, I taught a lesson when one needed to be taught. I imagine your pride hurts more than your bottom.” 

A flush of red blossomed across Sansa’s cheeks. She had nowhere to look, nowhere to hide. 

Gods, he was too near. He could reach out and kiss her if he wanted to. She could hardly stop him if he did. But she refused to step back. That would show weakness. 

Besides, he’d pledged to marry her aunt. She couldn’t forget that. 

“Did you encourage the captain, just so you could punish me?”

“No, I swear it,” Lord Baelish replied. 

He was so close she could feel his breath on her face. She wondered what it would feel like to kiss a man with a beard. Would it tickle her lips? 

Sansa raised her eyebrows. “Well, we’ll never know. You lie to me all the time.” 

“As do you.” 

“I’ve never lied to you, Lord Baelish,” Sansa protested, feeling pleased that she’d won at least one argument.

But Littlefinger only replied, “You can lie without words,” leaving Sansa to ponder over his meaning. 

“He was…” Sansa began, a disgusted frown contorting her face. “Serrel was… aroused.” 

“That was my intention, but…” Littlefinger let his words trail off. 

But he didn’t like it. He didn’t like the man, any man, looking at Sansa. 

When the time came, he would enjoy ordering Serrel’s death. 

Petyr didn’t think Sansa caught any meaning in his hesitation, but her eyes suddenly focused, sharper. Cold blue, impossibly light, piercing like a weapon. 

“But what?” she asked, blinking slowly. 

Littlefinger did not reply. 

Abruptly, Sansa lifted her chin. “You can lie without words,” she repeated. 

Petyr smirked in spite of himself. She was learning. But then, he’d always seen her potential, even when the Lannisters did not. 

_“But._ I did not like seeing him enjoy himself to you.” 

Sansa licked her lips, pursed them. She had not expected the confession. It wasn’t his words, exactly. He was supposed to be her friend, her protector, he was supposed to dislike seeing her with a man like that. 

It was the possessive edge to his voice, the threat riding on the undercurrent, the bold way he held her eyes. 

It frightened her a little. No, that wasn’t quite right. What unnerved her was something inside _her_ that she didn’t want to think about. 

Sansa parried instead. “Maybe next time I’ll get the chance to beat you. Maybe you’ll be my prisoner and I the lady captain, sailing you into slavery. How would that please you, Lord Baelish?” 

It didn’t please him at all. Moreover, he didn’t think it really pleased her. She simply fought for higher ground when uneasy, as did anyone with spirit. 

Littlefinger’s mouth curled into a one-sided smile. 

That stronghold she built was formidable, but not impenetrable. It would serve them both. Let the other men crash at the gates, drown in the moats, tumble to their deaths atop her fortress walls. But not him.

Littlefinger felt the stirring of something he hadn’t felt in years. Maybe ever. 

To him only, he wanted her defenseless. He didn't want any part of her kept guarded. 

And Lord Baelish was a man who got what he wanted. 

“Lie down on the bed.” 

He spoke quietly, but Sansa knew a whisper with Littlefinger was as alarming a roar in other men. 

“Here, on the edge,” he indicated the right side, where she slept. 

Wary, Sansa cocked her head to side, debating if she should put up a fight. 

She saved her breath. He’d probably have some reasoning she couldn’t contest. Training her eyes on Lord Baelish, she took slow steps until she came to the bedside. She laid down, as if for sleep, grimacing at the press of the hard bed against her sore bottom. 

She looked up at Littlefinger, expectedly. 

“Lift up your dress. Play with yourself.”

The words seared her face with a hot blush as she shot up into a sitting position. 

_“No,”_ she protested, voice low and strong. “There’s no one here now, no reason for me to engage in such… such disgracious acts.” 

“And how well did you perform when bid to do so with an audience? What if it’s requested again, before your sale? We’ll reach Lys soon, and we’ll have to convince an entire island that you’re the kidnapped lady of Westeros, bound to become the bedslave of their fantasies.” 

Sansa didn’t reply. She hated his logic. 

“Go on,” he encouraged her. “Show me how you’d entice a potential buyer.” 

With a huff through her nose, she laid back on her pillow. Sansa bent her knees, parted her legs. 

The lower half of her shift fell, pooling at her hips, and she momentarily closed her eyes. How many times had Lord Baelish seen her bare? How did it never get easier? 

Sansa was well aware that women pleasured themselves, only… she’d never actually done it herself. Once she’d come of age, the urge to explore her sexuality died with most other hopes and desires, the day they cut off her father’s head. It wasn’t that she never had thoughts of that nature. But after a day of being tortured by Joffrey or tormented by Cersei, plotting her escape took precedence over relaxing enough for pleasure any evening. And once they married her to the imp, it was out of the question. 

All of this became clear to Petyr the moment she jammed her fingers into herself and began to ram them in and out so hard he nearly cringed in sympathy. 

“No, no, no, no. Is that what they teach you up in the North?” 

It came out crueler than he’d intended. 

Sansa flicked her eyes to Littlefinger, jaw clenched. He seemed intent on humiliating her every chance he got. 

“No, my lord,” she began, voice edged with a sarcasm that surprised him. “My lessons at Winterfell focused on needlework and penmanship. There was no time allowing the instruction on how to stroke yourself for the arousal of a potential whoremaster of Lys.” 

Littlefinger pursed his lips to keep from smiling. “Didn’t your girlfriends ever talk… what was her name? Jeyne Poole? Or Margaery? I heard she gave you… certain marital advice on one of your garden strolls.” 

Sansa only stared ice daggers back in reply. _Did she have no secrets from him?_

“Move your hands,” Lord Baelish whispered. 

Gooseflesh rose on Sansa’s skin at his words. She didn’t know what he intended, but she knew him well enough to know it was something that would rattle her core. Again. 

With a defeated sigh, she reluctantly moved her hands aside. 

“Keep them on the bed,” Littlefinger instructed. “Whatever I do, you must keep them on the bed. Do you understand?” 

She didn’t, but she nodded anyway. 

Lord Baelish laid his hand on her chest, near her collarbone. Sansa jumped a little. Slowly, he moved down, fingers caressing the area between her breasts, trailing a line over her stomach. She sucked in a sharp breath. 

When he reached her flower, she gasped. Sansa began to breath hard and heavy. Was he planning on entering her? 

What she didn’t know, what Lord Baelish saw… was that she’d grown wet at the prospect. 

Slowly, Littlefinger caressed the soft skin of her thighs, edging closer, closer… until he reached her outer folds. 

Sansa whimpered, and though it felt good, she instinctively tensed the muscles in her legs, bringing them closer together. 

“Relax your legs,” Lord Baelish whispered. “And remember, keep your hands down.” 

Sansa obeyed, but she could bear the shame no longer and squeezed her eyes shut. 

Her hips began to sway a little, of their own volition, a slight wiggle, back-and-forth. Sansa wasn’t sure if she sought an easing of pressure by having Littlefinger touch her deeper, or if she sought to escape his unrelenting strokes. 

Pinned to the bed and bound not to move, the choice wasn’t hers anyway. 

Lord Baelish inserted one finger inside her and she groaned, head back, eyelids fluttering. 

He smirked, to himself. 

Petyr’s hands were as different from her own as the North from the South. No long nails scraped at her, no rigid digit cramming quickly in and out, more in an effort to put on a show for others than to actually give her body enjoyment. Sansa hadn’t really known what it was to bring forth pleasure through intimate caresses. 

Littlefinger did. 

He worked slowly, but firmly. His finger, slightly curved, reached a delicious spot deep within that made her shudder. He cupped his hand so that the heel grazed, teasingly, against her sensitive outer nub and Sansa found that she couldn’t help herself from rhythmically rising her hips up to try to press harder against it. 

Lord Baelish watched her body change with satisfaction, admiring her swollen lips and breasts. The slickness between her legs told him she was ready to be taken, eager – if he planned on such a thing. 

Petyr moved in and out faster, then slid a second finger inside her. 

The moans she tried to hide grew louder and she fisted her hands beside her, frustrated.

“Please,” Sansa whispered finally, and Littlefinger knew what other men did not. 

Some might think she pleaded for him to stop. Others, that she begged him to continue. Clever men might consider a touch of both in her appeal. They would all be right. Partially. 

But they missed another layer.

Lord Baelish heard the sound of the impossible please. The desperate plea to make it all _unhappen._ Sansa didn’t just want him to stop or him to continue, she didn’t want to _want_ anything at all. She wanted to unmake the entire situation. Go back to a time before she had any of these feelings whatsoever. 

He withdrew his fingers so abruptly, Sansa lurched, a strangled cry escaping her throat. Her eyes flew open, searching, and he saw they glistened. 

Littlefinger clasped his hands in front, settled back on his heels. 

In the sudden stillness, Sansa’s heart pounded frantically. Her erratic breathing became panicked. Her hips wiggled, embarrassingly, seeking the fulfillment she’d been denied.

Sansa resisted the urge to press her legs together to relieve the pressure - Littlefinger hadn’t given her permission. She struggled not to slide her own fingers down to replace his - shame stilled her hand. 

Most distressing of all, she fought not to beg Lord Baelish to touch her again. To not stop. To never stop. 

“Look at you,” he whispered, reading her thoughts. He was reminded of an observation he once made to her father.

“You know what you want me to do, you know it has to be done. But it’s not honorable so, the words stick in your throat.” 

Sansa’s cheeks burned. His words made it real. She’d hoped, foolishly, somehow, Littlefinger didn’t know the effect he had. What her body wanted. The tumult of her thoughts. Even if her body didn’t betray her, the private desires in her mind seemed equally exposed. 

“You _can_ be slow learner, Sansa. And I’m a patient teacher. Up to a point.” 

Sansa barely processed his words, she thought only about the pent up feeling between her legs. She’d never had an orgasm before, but she was sure if she could only touch herself, or if Lord Baelish would touch her once more, she could have such release within moments. 

Yet she could not bring herself to ask it. It was just as he said. 

Unhooking the buckles on his outer robes with a flourish, Lord Baelish suddenly seemed oblivious to her torment. “Best we get some rest. As I said, we’ll reach Lys soon enough.”

With disbelief, Sansa watched him undress down to the loose breeches beneath his robes, and climb into bed beside her. Like the previous evening, he blew out the remaining candle, plunging them into near-total darkness. 

The sea rocked their boat gently, but it did nothing to soothe Sansa to sleep. She rolled onto her side and rubbed her legs together, fruitlessly. Her head swum, mortifying images coming to the surface, such as the fleeting hope Lord Baelish would change his mind, lay on top of her and kiss her. She brought her fingers to her lips, pressing them, picturing Littlefinger’s mouth against hers. Quickly, anger followed -- that he dared to touch her, that he goaded arousal out of her, that he had the nerve to leave her wanting. After that, confusion at his true intentions clouded her mind. What could he _really_ want? 

Then the whole cycle started again. 

Hours passed before her excitement quieted and her thoughts stilled enough for her to even consider the possibility of drifting off. 

In the morning, the sky remained blessedly clear, but the storm in her head continued. It did not abate throughout the next two days, though Sansa was thankfully subjected to no worse exhibitions with the crew or captain than she’d already suffered. 

The only distraction came when, from the deck of their ship, she spied the palm-lined beaches of Lys, and the gracious, white pillars of the exotic city rising up behind them.

“Are you ready?” Littlefinger asked, coming up quietly behind her. 

“I’m frightened, but, yes,” Sansa said stoically, determined not to show him her true emotions. She caught the glint of the sun off a golden dome in the distance. She had never laid eyes on a more beautiful place. But she didn’t want to be enslaved here forever. 

Lord Baelish leaned half on the deck, half facing Sansa. 

“Do you trust me?” he asked. 

Sansa turned her head to study him. She wasn’t sure the answer. 

After a pause, she asked, “Do I have a choice?” 

There was a twinkle in Littlefinger’s eye as he replied, “not if you want to make it out of here.”


	6. Chapter 6

“My lady?”

Sansa turned, half expecting Littlefinger, though the hesitant tenor bore little resemblance to Lord Baelish’s self-assured whisper. Who else here would call her my lady?

A tall, yellow-haired man stood in the doorway to her cabin. His broad frame and large hands told her he was built for work – on this ship or in any other capacity. There was something familiar about his face…

“You?” Sansa asked, mouth parting in surprise. “You were a sailor on this ship before, before…” Sansa wasn’t sure how to end her sentence politely. _Before you were captured for slavery._ Lord Baelish had seen to the murder of the other surviving man, Sansa was sure of it. But he let this one live? 

“You served Lord Baelish,” Sansa concluded, circling back to omit commenting on his current fate. 

“And now he does once more.” 

The large man stepped aside, allowing Littlefinger to enter their cabin. He closed the door tightly behind them. 

“How?” Sansa asked. She meant a comprehensive, _how did you arrange the matter,_ but Lord Baelish skirted the depth of the question. 

“By granting Captain Serrel another three percent of your sale, for his temporary service in attending us through the auction.” 

Petyr’s blunt reply about them each as sellable goods left Sansa feeling awkward on both their behalves. 

“I hope it is not a great expense, my lord,” she said, implying the price or either, or both. 

Littlefinger waved his hand, dismissively. “Three percent of nothing is no expense at all.” 

Before Sansa could ask what he meant, Petyr continued, “May I introduce Dilron Stone. I knew his father, Khort of House Grafton. Dilron has served me well these many years. He can be trusted completely.” 

Sansa didn’t believe Littlefinger fully trusted anyone but himself. Especially a slave on loan, who could betray them to Serrel at any moment. And then the realization dawned on her. Littlefinger said he was on _temporary_ loan. The man’s best chance of escaping a lifetime of slavery lay with helping his lord succeed. Littlefinger may or may not trust his servant completely, it was irrelevant. For the time being, he trusted the man’s own sense of self-preservation. 

Sansa settled a knowing gaze on Littlefinger and was slightly taken aback when he returned a look that seemed appraise her approvingly and agree. 

That they appeared able to communicate with only a glance, gave Sansa an odd mixture of pride and unease. 

#

Lord Baelish settled them into a house the likes of which Sansa had never seen. It wasn’t just the opulence – she’d grown accustomed to that in King’s Landing. It was everything together. The brightly colored silks draped against white walls. The accents of gold and silver adorning the furnishings. The balcony with unblemished views of the turquoise sea.

And most of all, the jewel-box garden in back, bursting with color. Lemon trees, orange trees, flowering trees whose names she did not know, perfuming the air with such an exotic scent as to make her feel intoxicated. 

The whole place felt as fanciful as a dream. And, judging from the houses next to her, above and below on the slope of hill, each dwelling bore an equal beauty, making the entire island look like something someone dreamed up. 

Even so, Sansa did not forget that she herself was to be a part of the fantasy peddled here. 

Especially not when Lord Baelish arrived back late their first afternoon, with golden chains in his hands. 

#

“Sansa, it is important, now more than ever, that you do not waver from your role.” 

She glanced down at the hateful shackles he’d laid upon the table. They’d been arguing for some time now, though not so loud as to alert Serrel’s guards outside the house.

“You don’t have to wear chains between them. I do not think anyone would feel you’re much of a threat to run, or fight. But you must wear the collar, the cuffs.” 

Lord Baelish had procured a slave collar in addition to wrist and ankle cuffs. Something caught Sansa’s eye. She picked up the golden circlet meant for her neck. 

A bird – _a mockingbird_ – had been cast into the side, just off-center from the ringlet hanging down the front. Hastily done, it wasn’t master workmanship, but near enough to tell.

Sansa scowled at Littlefinger, accusingly. 

“It will keep you safe,” he whispered. “I have a reputation here.” 

She narrowed her eyes with suspicion. Then she lifted her chin and drew herself up to look down her nose, the self-possessed way she always did to affect a sort of armor. 

“I’m surprised you don’t just brand me. Etch your sigil on my skin so that it can never be removed.”

Sansa’s ever-growing frustration demanded _something._ A rise out of him. A fight. 

Lord Baelish smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “That would diminish your value at auction.” 

She stared icily back at him, thinking the matter closed until, after a pause, he spoke again.

“Disappointed?”

Sansa made a noise between a snort and a choke at the chink in her armor. “What do you mean?” Was he referring to the night he touched her? Did he think she derived any pleasure from his… his… _torments_ on her body? She did _not._

“Do you think I want any of this, Lord Baelish? I want to go _home._ But I can never return to Winterfell.” 

“I was simply wondering if you might feel safer under a cover of more permanent protection.” 

Oh. Heat crept up her neck. She was saved from responding when he noted, “A lot can happen between now and never. Perhaps you’ll return to your beloved home again someday.” 

Sansa didn’t see how that was possible. Unlikely occurrences seemed to happen to her quite often, but they were never for the better. 

“And what is it you want, Lord Baelish?” 

He only stared at Sansa with that inscrutable expression, that knowing twinkle in his eye. She was aware so much more played behind it than others knew. She just didn’t know precisely what. Every time she thought she’d figured him out, he changed, as difficult to grasp as a bird ready for flight, much like his chosen sigil. Well, if he was a bird, she was a fish. Everyone said she had so much of her mother, the Tully, in her. And fish could be slippery to catch as well. 

Littlefinger took the collar from her hands and held it up, raising his eyebrows. 

Or not. 

Reluctantly, Sansa lifted her hair and bowed her head. Petyr moved behind her to fasten it and all of her nerve endings seemed to come alive where his fingers touched or even _might_ touch her neck. When the lock clicked shut with a finality that could not be denied, she shuddered. Turning, her hands flew to caress the strange and unfamiliar weight encircling her. 

Littlefinger repeated the process on her arms and legs. Each shackle had a small ring forged into the side, meant for lacing chains and fastening her to… _gods,_ she didn’t want to think about it. 

_A bed. A master’s bed._

She thought about it. 

And she’d wear her shackles, even in sleep, until the day Littlefinger released her. 

Completing the task on her final ankle, Littlefinger sat back, and their eyes locked. 

Sansa’s heart skipped a beat in a girlish way it hadn’t done since her foolishness with Ser Loras. But there was nothing sweet or innocent about the moment now. Indeed, this close to Lord Baelish, the thrill seemed to come from something dangerous. Her blood warmed and raced, a thrum to it that made her tingle with… if not excitement, a kind of quickening. Odd that being enchained to Littlefinger, by all accounts losing bit by bit of her freedom, made her feel _more,_ not less. 

Searching his hands, she realized she didn’t even see where he’d hidden the key. Every step they took together since boarding the ship worked to entrap her further. Or had it gone back longer than that? Or was it really only now just beginning? 

She didn’t know. Everything about the man was an enigma, it couldn’t surprise Sansa that her feelings around him puzzled her too. 

Sansa’s gaze lingered on Petyr’s fingers, long and deft, and the memory of what they’d done to her came in a rush that gave her a warm sensation in her belly. What if he decided to do that again – or worse – with her arms and legs chained to _his_ bed? 

Sansa gulped, and, realizing it, grew angry. 

She was always naked and _he,_ he in layers of robes. Who could guess what went on beneath them? For all she knew, he was a eunuch like Lord Varys. Perhaps that’s why the two of them always seemed locked in rivalry. Or maybe it was just the opposite. Maybe Littlefinger had a reputation with the ladies. Maybe that’s why he ran such successful brothels – to sample the whores at leisure. Perhaps they even liked it. Perhaps Varys envied that Lord Baelish was generously endowed enough to bring forth such pleasure… 

“What _is_ your plan to get us out of here?” Sansa asked suddenly, to distract herself. 

Captain Serrel had posted guards outside their house he planned on maintaining at all times – he wasn’t a fool. But inside, they retained almost total privacy, save for the comings and goings of Dilron, who wasn’t overly clever, but did seem smart enough to choose his loyalties wisely, not to mention a capable servant. 

“Arranging this auction is going to take some time. Weeks, at least. Word will be sent throughout Lys, Myr, Tyrosh, and Volantis, to gather interested masters here. It matters little the price you raise, I will be paying it,” he told her in clipped tones. “Well, a buyer on my behalf will ultimately succeed in winning the auction.”

Sansa breathed a sigh of relief at his confidence. 

“I am sending word to the Iron Bank that an emissary is to meet us as soon as possible, with ample funds for your purchase.” 

“And what of Serrel’s cut?” she asked. 

Littlefinger’s mouth ghosted a smile. 

“He won’t live long enough to spend it.”

As a young girl, that would have shocked Sansa. Now, she only nodded, sagely. Littlefinger would do what needed to be done. 

He gave a tug on her restraints, ensuring they were secure, and Sansa blushed as she amended her thought.

They _both_ would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to split this chapter up as it got too long, so another update will be coming asap. This increased the overall count, and there may even be one more chapter increase again. Thanks for your patience!


	7. Chapter 7

True to his word, days turned into weeks, with Littlefinger gone in the mornings and often the afternoons, as well. Sansa was never permitted to leave without his company, so to keep her entertained during the day, she was pleasantly surprised when he brought in tutors. Dancing masters, experts in High Valerian, dressmakers who taught her Lysene techniques for dyeing silks. Only once did Serrel question them, saying that her education should be furthered by instruction from bed slaves and whores, not with the pursuits of a noblewoman. Littlefinger reminded the captain that Sansa’s unfamiliarity with those very subjects was at the heart of her appeal as the “virginal lady for despoiling.”

When he returned, Littlefinger was never without a present. Often it was more slave clothing for her to wear – she’d been required to dress in silks so sheer as to border on inappropriate -- diaphanous, billowing creations that floated as she walked. But sometimes he’d bear other gifts; a book on poetry, a pearl brooch, a jade hair comb from Asshai that offset her red hair nicely. 

Each balmy evening, she and Littlefinger supped together in the garden. In the center laid a small, rectangular pool, and every night Dilron lit half a dozen candles to float on its surface. 

They never spoke of what transpired on the ship. Her humiliation, her punishment, his fingers inside her as she writhed on the bed. Sansa felt less relieved and more confused. The way he looked at her, she swore Lord Baelish desired more from her than compliance for their mutual survival. But he was pledged to marry her Aunt Lysa, so perhaps not. 

Sansa was granted private quarters for the time being, but she slept as fitfully in her own bed as she had on the ship. From what she observed before, Littlefinger slept untroubled. One night, Sansa thought so much about Lord Baelish – how deeply he truly slumbered, what was underneath his robes, the memory of his fingers stroking her intimately – that she had a dream about him. In it, she willed the courage to peek beneath his bedcovers while he slept. But when she pulled the sheet back, a hand with an iron grip suddenly grabbed her wrist, and she jumped to see Petyr looking at her. 

“If you’re interested in what’s beneath my robes, all you have to do is ask,” he mocked. “I gave you the courtesy of being conscious, after all.” 

Sansa woke up so wet she thought her moonblood had come upon her again, at last. She didn’t know if it was the travel, the food, or her emotions – she was nervous on a good day, terrified on the worst - but her flowering had come off course since they’d departed. 

Perhaps it was the wine, as Sansa began to become accustomed to the taste. Lord Baelish bid her drink with him nightly, though never to excess. 

One evening, Sansa was surprised to hear him read from the poetry book he’d purchased, with seeming ease and enjoyment. He appeared to be in a notably good mood that day, but when she inquired about it earlier, he only told her that fortunate and favorable news came via “ships and ravens and messengers, in the East and the West.” 

“I did not think you would be the type of man to appreciate poetry,” Sansa remarked, as he put down the book. “My lord,” she quickly added. The auction drew near – a mere two days away - and Littlefinger had reminded her to start practicing submission once more, even in private. 

He tossed her his usual smirk, the one that made her pulse race a little. 

“Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to protect.” 

But the amused tone of his voice told her he cared little what others thought about the pursuit. 

Sansa grinned, a rare genuine smile she hadn’t had cause to give much since leaving Winterfell those many years ago. 

“What else? My lord. Besides poetry, what else do you enjoy?” 

“Oh, everything.” 

“That’s not an answer,” she laughed. Perhaps she’d drunk a bit more wine than usual, lost in the soft rhythm of Petyr’s voice as he read. At the movement, the collar at her throat flashed in the candlelight, catching Littlefinger’s eye. 

She wore a dress of translucent midnight blue; indigo in the day, the color of the sky just after twilight in the firelight, black in the darkness of shadow. Of all the many colored gowns he’d brought, this one seemed to suit her most. Or maybe, suit his vision of her. He wasn’t sure. 

“Tell me,” she goaded. “If anything goes wrong and I’m to be sold into slavery, I’d at least like my last days as a free woman to not be alone. Without meaningful conversation, I mean.” 

“Don’t you trust me?” Lord Baelish asked. 

“I never said that,” she hedged. 

“No,” he agreed. “You didn’t.” 

Lord Baelish rubbed his fingers together, in thought. 

“Perhaps we should play a game.” 

“A game?” 

“You asked what I enjoy. Sometimes, I like to play a little game,” Littlefinger said, voice low. 

Sansa blinked. “What kind of game?” 

“A trust game.” 

“Haven’t we been playing that since we met?” she quipped. 

She earned a slow nod from Lord Baelish as the corners of his lips turned up in slight amusement. 

“Let’s take it another step, shall we? After all, once we enter the auction room, there’s little I can do to control the outcome or protect you. Our best chance of survival relies on your ability to lie. And we both know you’ve never been the most convincing liar.” 

Sansa sat back in her chair, considering Petyr. He was going to challenge her in a way that unsettled her core again. She knew Littlefinger would have some reasoning as to why he wanted her to do the things he wanted. Something she couldn’t argue against, couldn’t fight. 

She licked her lips and took one more sip of wine. 

If that was to be the case, she resolved her best choice was to try to seize some control back for herself. To play along and give as good as she got. 

“Alright.” Sansa lifted her chin, enabling her to look down on Petyr, sitting a few feet across from her. 

He paused, then said, “I’ll give a command for you to obey. You will convince me you’re a submissive bed slave, and do as I say.”

_This isn’t a trust game,_ Sansa thought. It was the same game they continually played some variation of lately. 

This was a _power_ game. 

“Remove your gown.”

Of course he wanted her naked. It was the quickest way to humble her… though a curious excitement coursed through her at his words. 

“You want me to undress again?” 

“As lovely as you look in Lyense silk, yes.” 

Sansa rose from her chair. Without much at her command, she took control over what she could – the manner in which she obeyed. She held Littlefinger’s gaze and slowly slid the dress from her shoulders, letting it fall in one swoop to her feet. She stepped out and waited, burying her embarrassment deep within, in order to level Lord Baelish with a disaffected stare. 

Something in his expression told her, undoubtedly, that she wasn’t fooling him. But with her only other option to simper – and she’d had enough of that – she willed an air of nonchalance to her posture. Or as best she could, naked in the moonlight, but for her manacles. 

And his eyes, _always_ his eyes. Somehow both intense and secretive, arrogant and playful. Searing her flesh, boring into her as if he could see beyond her skin into all her secret places within her mind and her heart. 

“On your knees.” 

Sansa kneeled, rough stone pavers pressing against her skin. 

“Crawl to me.” 

For just a moment, her eyelids fluttered at the mortifying thought before remembering that she’d vowed to hold her own. She tried to fix a half-smile on her face she hoped was tantalizing but felt more like a grimace. 

Sansa crawled slowly toward Lord Baelish, both because the ground could easily scrape her skin and because she wanted to claim some power back for herself. She felt humiliated at his feet like a slave, but never once did she cast her head down. _Think of Margaery,_ she told herself. _She wrapped even the sadistic Joffrey around her finger._

When Sansa reached Lord Baelish, she placed her hands on either side of his legs. Her heart pounded wildly as she lifted herself half-up between his thighs, as if to climb into his lap. She felt his whole body stiffen in response.

“I didn’t tell you to sit on me.”

“You told me to be a convincing bed slave,” she countered, trying to keep her voice from cracking. “This is as one would do, Lord Baelish.” 

“You’re supposed to be the blushing lady, not the wanton whore.” 

Sansa only batted her lashes and, with a deep breath, proceeded to rise. Legs bent, she straddled his lap, and _oh-_

Not Varys. Not Varys, _indeed._

Littlefinger raised his eyebrows as if to ask, “find something you like?”

Sansa looked around, flustered, before remembering again she was now vying to play on her own terms. Without giving herself time to change her mind, she pressed her hips forward and down, firmly against Lord Baelish’s groin. 

“You don’t seem to mind,” she whispered, pleased it came out smooth enough to maybe count as seductive. “Blushing lady, wanton whore. I imagine you’ve sampled many varieties, Lord Baelish, with all those flourishing brothels.” 

“No, not really.” 

Another lie. He wanted her to think he as inexperienced as they both knew her to be. Why? To what end? Sansa was sure Littlefinger played her as a pawn in the past. What did he want from her now? Was it simply that he needed her to secure his own freedom? 

Well. If Lord Baelish was using her to stay alive, she could do the same. 

“Would you like to accompany me to your rooms to change that?” Sansa asked, hoping to startle or even shock him with her playacting, but it was she who became unsettled. Leaning in, her breasts brushed up against Littlefinger’s tunic and the simple contact with his fabric hardened her nipples. 

“Yes.” 

_Yes?_

Were they still playing a game?

Her ear tickled where he’d breathed, _yes._ Unbidden, she imagined the two of them in his bed. His hands… _gods_ … his hands all over her naked body. Her, free to explore the total _maleness_ of him as he lay on top of her, tongue boldly probing her mouth… the hardness she felt pressed against her now thrusting to fill her _increasingly wet_ opening. She realized, with utter shame, that when she rose the evidence would remain plain upon his trousers. 

Panicked, Sansa replied, “I – I… can’t do that, I’m to remain chaste for the sale…”

“A charade,” Littlefinger spoke close to her ear, the gleam back in his eye. 

Was he calling her bluff? Was he serious? 

Sansa gave a breathy laugh, trying to shift the mood. She leaned back. “Well… done? I’ve done well. Yes? I convinced you I’m a proper bed slave?” She practically leapt off his lap, picked up her discarded dress from the ground, and pressed it to her for cover. 

“Oh, you’ve convinced me of many things tonight,” he whispered, slowly. 

The puzzling non-answer sent chills up Sansa’s body. She nearly ran from the garden, back to her room. She couldn't meet his eyes when he saw the puddle she was sure she left on his lap.

_Lord Baelish._

Her _uncle!_ He was to be her uncle!

The shame of it could not be borne. 

#

By the time she dressed for sleep and dove beneath the bedding, Sansa had calmed herself a little. She decided that even though the game hadn’t ended as she’d like – far from it - the power she wretched for herself pleased her. Cersei, Margaery, Littlefinger. She was learning. Taking pieces of each of them, strengths, and incorporating them into her skill set. 

She’d wager it caught Lord Baelish off guard. There were moments in the garden he’d been flustered, without a doubt. Or, at least, not in _total_ control, as usual. That was something to relish. She lay in bed, thinking over her newfound self-reliance with a satisfied grin.

Until a disturbing thought occurred to her. 

What if… 

What if… _she played right into Lord Baelish’s plan?_

What if, for some reason, he wanted this outcome, and all the toying with her was some kind of lesson he wanted to teach her?

Manipulating her, training her. 

_Why?_


	8. Chapter 8

Sansa could scarcely breathe when she was called upon the dais, the last bed slave of the day. 

She held Littlefinger’s eyes, trying to borrow the quiet confidence he always maintained. Odd that, a short time ago, she’d been in a similar position on the ship, and had never felt so alone. All those nights with Lord Baelish in the garden - even when antagonized her - drew her in, brought her closer, so that they shared a twisted sort of trust now. 

Since their little game that evening, he’d mostly left her alone, perhaps giving her time to mentally prepare for this day. 

Through no fault of their own, the auction wasn’t going as smoothly as hoped. Its very popularity contributed to the ruckus of the overcrowded hall. To his credit, Lord Baelish had done better than most at bringing a semblance of order to the disparate gathering before them. When word spread of Littlefinger’s curated selection on offer, too many interested buyers made the trip. 

And blood feuds ran deep between the various masters and magisters of Tyrosh, Myr, and Volanits, over constant battles for the Disputed Lands, familial grudges, and personal slights – all the worse for Tyroshi masters who arrived already drunk. Bickering broke out between the less courteous men whenever they concluded one auction and brought up a new girl. It seemed to Sansa they earned a fair coin – she wasn’t familiar enough to determine what was acceptable – but the crowd continued to grow disruptive as the sale wore on. 

Sansa’s hands shook as she ascended the stairs. At least two small blessings occurred before they arrived. One, she persuaded Littlefinger to save one of the bed slaves, who looked about as young as she had been upon arriving in King’s Landing. Petyr had stared at her for a moment before saying, “you have a gentle heart my lady,” and agreeing to “purchase” the young girl himself. 

The other unexpected luck was that Lord Baelish provided her a modest gown. 

“I’m to wear this?” she asked, when she held up the light blue dress. The exquisite embroidery and plunging neckline would have been approved of by Margaery, if not something Sansa would have chosen, back in King’s Landing. But at least she wasn’t to be stripped naked before the crowd. 

“A Westerosi gown for the kidnapped lady of Westeros is more appropriate, I think,” Littlefinger replied. “Would you prefer traditional slave garb? Or nothing at all?” 

“No, I-” Sansa blushed. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t thank me. I’m only doing what’s best to have you look the part. If it suited our plan to have you bare before the masters, I would require it.” 

Sansa felt a strange hurt like a rock in her stomach, a heavy, sinking feeling. 

But it only lasted a moment. 

Because in the time they’d spent together, she had learned more about Littlefinger – what lay behind the things he said, even what lay behind the things he _didn’t_ say. She knew him better than anyone else perhaps. And though she didn’t fully understand it, didn’t know what it meant, she could tell. 

There was a lie in his words. 

#

With reluctance, she broke their stare to face the crowd – 

\- and immediately realized she competed for attention against an ever-unruly assembly of men, and even some women. 

At first, the striking difference in her appearance did catch the notice of many buyers, and Sansa’s heart beat fearfully as gazes shot to the bare expanse of her midsection, her breasts nearly bursting out of the gown. 

If anything went wrong and she was doomed to live out her days a whore for a master, she couldn’t bear it. She’d rather die. Sansa’s eyes watered at the thought, her lip quivered.

“Pretty thing, but so timid!” scoffed a chubby man, with patchy hair and a nose that had broken at least once. “A simpering mute.”

His tablemates _laughed_ their agreement. 

Through her panic, Sansa realized quickly that she’d made a mistake. She was playing this all wrong, just like she had with Littlefinger on the ship. 

_What to do?_ She needed to turn the tide, there was no one else to do it for her. Inexplicably, Lord Tyrion flashed through her mind. Before she even knew what she was saying, the words flew out of her mouth. 

“I would think a man with a face like yours would prefer a lady who holds her tongue.” She threw behind it all the pride of her noble birth. She was _Lady Sansa Stark,_ after all. 

The immediate and stunned silence that descended upon the room sent an almost painful fear coursing through Sansa’s veins. Had she gone too far?

Terrified, she looked at Lord Baelish. He pursed his lips on one side, scrunched up, as if holding back an amused grin. 

No one in the hall spoke, no one even stirred, waiting to see what would happen next.

Sansa looked back at the man she insulted. 

He broke into a hearty laugh so deep it made her jump, slamming the table with his fist in thunderous accompaniment. 

Others followed, a chorus of chuckles breaking the tension. 

“She’s got spirit, I like it,” the ugly man declared. 

“I’ll like breaking it,” another man shouted. 

Sansa exhaled a deep breath. She had their attention. But the ordeal was far from over. 

She found Petyr’s eyes once more and understanding passed between them and _only_ them. She would have never thought it, but, they worked well together. She also noted approval in his eyes, and though it bothered her to admit she felt this way, she experienced a twinge of pride in satisfying him. 

Finding her role, Sansa lifted her chin and fixed the crowd with her cold stare. Dignified, superior. The Kidnapped Lady of Westeros, who would not be easily tamed. 

A few remaining men in front corner continued to toss back their glasses and chat, so Sansa set her attention there. 

“Do you plan on bidding, my lords?” she asked, tone mockful. “I should like to be purchased by men who drink and talk, more than pester a lady for pleasure. I shall be troubled with no work at all in your service.” 

More laughter, and Sansa bit her lip to refrain from a self-pleased grin. She could practically _feel_ Lord Baelish’s amusement. 

“Shall we start the bidding at…” he began. 

“A thousand gold honors!” someone shouted the Meereenese coin from the back. 

The bids increased from there. Sansa found the disparate array of currency dizzying, but Lord Baelish had no trouble at all calculating the differing values as they were called.

In the end, she was “won” by middle-aged man with dark hair and dark skin, whom Littlefinger had planted amongst the crowd. 

Sansa thanked the gods everything happened fairly quickly after that. When she was given to the man with mysterious, yet kind, eyes, a degree of safety washed over her.

Together, they took a litter through the city, then mounted fresh horses at its edge. The man spoke little – he didn’t even reveal his name, as was apparently his custom – but his confident manner helped relax Sansa. Riding to the far side of the island, her rescuer escorted her to a white house on an isolated stretch of beach. 

There was nothing to do but wait for Littlefinger’s arrival. 

Listening to the strange, broad-leafed trees swaying in the ocean breeze, Sansa felt a world away from everything she’d ever known. In that moment, she missed home more than ever. 

She paced, barely noticing her surroundings, until she could stand being inside no longer and began pacing the desolated, southern cove. Eventually, she sat on the beach, and, trying to remember her home, built a sand castle in a rough approximation of Winterfell. At least, as near as she could remember it. 

After what felt like several hours, she heard the beat of hoofs upon the sand, and turned. 

Black cape dancing on the wind, silver pin flashing at his neck, ever-confident posture. 

Lord Baelish could sit a horse, she had to give him that. 

Relief washed over Sansa as he neared, quickly turning to giddiness. They had finally, _truly_ escaped. 

Her savior. 

She could have almost kissed him. Almost. 

#

Petyr rode alone. Sansa was sure he would have brought guards, or servants, or both. Now that she thought about it, none remained at the modest house, save the man who escorted her here, and Dilron, who’d been waiting inside when they arrived. Both planned on departing, apparently having parts to play in the scheme unfolding back in the city -- after a loud and conspicuous revelry with many, many drinks, a shocking murder-theft would occur late that evening. 

Most of the slavers who took Littlefinger’s ship would not see the sun rise tomorrow, Captain Serrel amongst them. Sansa and Lord Baelish would be free to depart, resuming their journey to the Eyrie… and heavier the coin they’d just lost. 

“My lady,” Littlefinger greeted her, dismounting. 

Sansa furrowed her brow. He hadn’t called her that since they began their act. 

He seemed suddenly more formal now, even in the manner in which he took her hand. Had everything changed back again? Like it never even happened? 

Sansa felt the weight of the collar around her neck and thought, _but no… he hasn’t removed my shackles yet._

If she knew Littlefinger, he’d plan on compelling her to do something in exchange for their removal. Perhaps kiss him. Perhaps worse. 

As they entered the house together, Sansa finally took stock of their surroundings. It wasn’t large like the well-appointed hillside dwelling they shared in the city, though not small enough to be called a cottage either. It might serve as a retreat for a rich merchant, to escape the noise of the city. Indeed, Sansa could hear the surf from inside. 

And only the surf. 

They were leagues from the nearest town. The only other two people had departed moments after their lord arrived. 

She was entirely alone with Littlefinger on this strange shore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to split this chapter into not two, but three parts. I apologize for the incorrect allocation, but the story is now complete. I will be updating the other chapters soon. 
> 
> Consequently, this chapter is a bit transitional and also where Sansa diverges more from a passive role. 
> 
> I drew from three events: 1) When she lies for Littlefinger before the Lords of the Vale to save him (and herself.) 2) When Robb Stark calls his bannermen - Greatjon draws against him. Robb's direwolf bites off Greatjon's fingers, and the lord comes around to Robb's side because of his strength, and laughs, causing everyone else to laugh. 3) When book Tyrion is sold into slavery, he uses his wits to talk his way into being purchased along with Ser Jorah. It's always mentioned that Sansa learned from Cersei and Littlefinger, but I think Margaery and Tyrion would have influenced her too. Especially since she spent a lot of time with her husband, presumably, and she had a keen enough mind to note his strengths, observe when he talked his way in or out of a situation.


	9. Chapter 9

Sansa eyed Littlefinger with suspicion as he removed his outer cape. 

“Unchain me, Lord Baelish,” she demanded, lifting her chin. 

“Of course, my lady.” 

_Of course?_

He withdrew a key from within his robes, stood behind her, and unlocked her collar. 

It was too easy. 

_Unless…_ Were all the games they played really just games to survive? 

She had _sworn_ there was more to way he looked at her… Not that she cared, of course. The feeling inside her wasn’t disappointment, it was just disturbance at… not knowing for sure. 

A puzzled frown crept over Sansa’s face. Wary, she stepped away from Littlefinger. 

He cocked his head at her. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t demand something of me before letting me go,” she said, convinced it sounded accusing, and _not_ provoking. 

“I don’t need chains to bind you to me,” he replied with nonchalance. 

The claim caused Sansa’s heart to seize, but before she could speak, Petyr interrupted.

“I have news of your ex-husband.” 

Momentarily diverted, her jaw dropped in surprise. 

“In messaging interested bidders, I sent word to masters in Elyria, Yunkai… many cities. I’ve come across some very valuable information.” 

Lord Baelish seemed to relish prolonging the disclosure. Sansa wished he’d hurry. 

“A eneuch was spotted in one of the pillow houses in Volantis, accompanying a dwarf. One or the other might go unremarked upon, but together…” he shook his head, scrunching his lips. “The dwarf was last seen being forcefully escorted by a Westerosi sellsword trying, and failing, to keep a low profile.” 

Littlefinger took two steps toward her as he spoke. “A sellsword I was able to confirm as Ser Jorah Mormont, who may or may not be in the service of Daenerys Targaryen.” 

Sansa tried to puzzle together what he was saying. “Tyrion? Is Tyrion here in Essos?” 

“That he is,” Lord Baelish replied, raising his eyebrows. 

“Why? Where is he going?”

“Lord Tyrion was found guilty of murdering King Joffrey, then murdering his father, Tywin Lannister.” 

Sansa drew in her breath, shocked to hear news of Lord Tywin’s death. That meant… _Tommen would be ruling unencumbered,_ she thought, with some relief.

_No,_ she revised, stomach sinking. That meant, _Cersei would be ruling unencumbered._

“Cersei’s promised a lordship to any man who brings her Tyrion’s head.” Littlefinger paused, then added. “I’ve informed Queen Cersei of her brother’s travels. She was most grateful.”

“But Lord Tyrion was always kind to me. We both know he didn’t kill Joffrey,” Sansa said, pointedly. “And if he killed his father… I’m sure he had reason.” 

“It does not matter. He’s likely well on his way toward Meereen. There is nothing Cersei can do from King’s Landing to reach him now. Not that this lessened my gift.” 

Sansa nodded, thinking it over. Littlefinger spoke in a duplicitous way. In his decision to expose her husband, did it not matter that Tyrion was kind to her? Or it did it not matter if Tyrion had reason to kill his father? Or what Littlefinger seemed to want her to believe – that it did not matter for Tyrion that he’d passed information on his whereabouts to Cersei, because there was little she could do about it anyway? 

Sansa’s musings were interrupted when Lord Baelish added, “I’ve informed Queen Cersei of your travels, as well. A version of that story, I should say.” 

Sansa clutched her heart, eyes wide at the betrayal. _“Why?”_

“Cersei has a mind that you were a part of the plot to kill Joffrey. I convinced her otherwise when I told her I’d found you in Essos, having been forcefully removed from King’s Landing in a plan by your ex-husband… then abandoned to the whims of a whoremaster in Lys.” 

Sansa blinked. “Cersei knows I’m here.” 

“After I described the many weeks you suffered at the hands of any man who could pay, I’d say her rage not only quelled, but the Queen delighted in your fate.” 

Sansa made a face of disgust. She shouldn’t care, but it enraged her that Cersei thought she’d spent all this time being raped by countless men. 

“Your crimes against the crown have been pardoned. You’ve been cleared of all charges concerning Joffrey’s murder. And, at the conclusion of the ‘urgent business’ that brought me to Lys, I’ve been given leave to bring you home.” He paused, a gleam in his eye. “To Winterfell.” 

_Home?_

It wasn’t possible. Cersei would never allow it. And even if she did, the Boltons held Winterfell. 

Littlefinger advanced two more steps, standing so close she could touch him. 

“We’ll take back the North.”

Sansa’s knees threatened to give out. It couldn’t be true. 

“That’s not possible. Cersei might agree to clear me of Joffrey’s murder, but she would never allow me to escape her power,” Sansa shook her head. “She certainly wouldn’t let me, a Stark, the daughter of a known traitor, reclaim the North.”

Petyr remained silent, hands clasped in front. He watched her. 

Slowly, very slowly, like trudging through mud, Sansa’s head began to sort through everything Littlefinger related. It was as if they built something together, stone by stone, and she could only now step back and see what he’d designed. 

“You said _we’ll_ take back Winterfell,” Sansa whispered, bringing her hand to her mouth, in thought. 

Littlefinger blinked. Pursed his lips to the side. 

_He kept calling Tyrion her ex-husband…_

“The Boltons have divided the North, it’s in Cersei’s interest to bring it to heel. And she’s promised a lordship to any man who brings her Tyrion’s head, or near enough…” he repeated. “But I already have several lordships. And I’m not any man.” 

_It couldn’t be._

“She wouldn’t trust me in Winterfell, she wouldn’t give me anything,” Sansa voice rose with her temper. “And she’s not. She’s not granting me the North… she’s forging an alliance.” 

Littlefinger studied her, waiting patiently for her conclusion. Did his mouth twitch? 

“In her eyes, I’m now a despoiled, broken girl with the Stark name. And you’re a trusted Lannister supporter. I get to return to Winterfell… because I will be escorted by my new husband --” She glared at him, shock turning to fury. 

“You.” 

The _bastard._ He didn’t even seem the least contrite. 

_This couldn’t be happening._

“But I’m still married to Tyrion.”

“Annulled. Unconsummated.” 

“But… Aunt Lysa…” 

“The crown can’t openly back the siege. With only a few token Lannister soldiers, we’ll need support from the Knights of the Vale to reclaim Winterfell. I have a plan to handle your aunt…” 

Sansa didn’t hear him. Her ears roared. Despite the sea breeze, the room had grown very hot. 

His _wife._ She was to be Littlefinger’s _wife._

“You’re going to deliver the North to the Lannisters. I won’t do it. I’ll starve myself, I’ll-” 

Lord Baelish closed the distance between them, grabbed hold of Sansa’s shoulders. “For a time, only. When the moment is right… we’ll break those ties.” He said it with all the confidence of a man who would see to making the right moment.

Lord Baelish moved his hands to Sansa’s face, cupping it. “Is marriage to me such a terrible prospect that you’d rather die?” 

His lips were inches away. Eyes fixed on hers, allowing no escape. 

Petyr’s body was too close, it did funny things to her belly. A lady couldn’t _think_ with someone standing so near. 

Then it occurred to Sansa… he’d been planning this all along, hadn’t he? That’s why he was in such a good mood the day he read poetry to her - he’d gotten word of Cersei’s decree. That’s why he didn’t want her too exposed at the slave auction. He planned to make her his _wife._ And that’s why he played those sexual games… he _was_ testing her or grooming her to suit him. Maybe both. 

In order to see her home again, in order to even leave this island, she was going to have to _marry_ Lord Baelish. 

Understanding dawned in Sansa. Of the futility of all her actions ever since… maybe ever since he laid eyes on her. 

“I was never going to escape you, was I?” she asked, searching his green-gray eyes. 

One side of Littlefinger’s mouth curled up in amusement. 

“No.”


	10. Chapter 10

“You planned this… I’ve been your pawn,” Sansa cried, throwing him off and backing up. Why wouldn’t the roar in her ears go away? 

“Yes. At first,” he replied. Lord Baelish didn’t move his shoulders, but there was a shrug in his words. 

“Did you arrange the attack on our ship?” she asked. 

“I may have let slip plans for our voyage to a few choice pirates across the Narrow Sea. But I couldn’t have predicted what would happen from there.” 

“You risked our lives!”

“I’d risk everything to get what I want,” Littlefinger declared with a half-smile. 

“And what do you really want, Lord Baelish?” 

“I thought you knew.” 

“I was wrong.”

“No. You weren’t.” 

Sansa’s nose scrunched in disgust. “You want Winterfell. _No…_ You want the Iron Throne, and you see my claim on the North as a means to achieve it.” 

Lord Baelish flashed a small smile, but it didn’t touch his eyes. It didn’t look happy at all. 

“Do you think I planned to marry you, when you were a child? I ran a brothel like no other, it’s true. The sheer range of appetites catered to desires that didn’t even exist until we invented them. But have I ever struck you as the type who likes to pass the time with little girls?”

Sansa didn’t need to reply, they both knew the answer. Lord Baelish wasn’t a man with a revolting desire, like the rumored tastes of Ser Meryn Trant. For that matter, Lord Baelish wasn’t a man with a penchant for whores, like her first husband, Lord Tyrion. Or one contrary to her needs, like her near-second, Ser Loras. In truth, he wasn’t known to have much of an appetite at all. 

Except when it came to her. 

“I didn’t consider you in that particular manner until you’d grown… until, about the same time I realized you began to consider me,” he whispered. 

_Consider him?_ Was that a polite way of saying she desired him? He presumed to know everything, didn’t he? Sansa thought. It was _not_ true. 

Sansa took another step back. The chaos in her mind from the turn of events started to settle down. She could hear again, breathe again. 

“You’re a pervert who likes to do perverted things to me.”

“And you like me doing them.” 

“I do _not.”_

“No?” 

He moved so fast, Sansa had not time to react. 

In one movement he grabbed her, lifted her off her feet, and carried her the few steps into the bedroom, despite her struggles. She thought he meant to throw her onto the bed, but instead he sat upon the edge himself. 

With a quiet, steel-like energy, he pulled her face-down over his lap. He wasn’t rough or brutish, just firm. Even still, she’d never known Littlefinger to use force when he could use guile, and that frightened her. 

Sansa didn’t understand what he intended, but when she felt her dress rise, she knew it was something indecent. 

“Let me go,” she ordered, infusing her words with a calm command she did not truly feel. After all, he certainly didn’t seem ruffled by the situation. 

Lord Baelish gently laid a hand on her backside and she froze at his touch. 

“When I’ve finished,” he agreed, and proceeded to remove her small clothes with one hand. The other held Sansa in place when she began pushing again in vain attempts get off his lap. 

Once her bottom was fully exposed, Sansa panicked, reddened to her ears. 

Littlefinger’s first humiliating smack on her unprotected backside caused her head to jerk, but she had no time to recover as he rapidly placed several more. 

It wasn’t like the time he struck her on the ship. For one thing, his blows didn’t make her scream, at least not immediately. For another, they came a lot faster. 

And also, they were more… intimate. 

Feeling Lord Baelish’s hands against her flesh, repeatedly smacking her… caused a funny feeling deep within Sansa. 

He continued to spank her, harder, and she had difficulty stifling her cries. Her legs kicked, seeking an escape from the onslaught. 

Sansa couldn’t make sense of her emotions. Frustration at her helplessness - but frustration at her growing desire, too. Shame at her powerlessness – but also shame at her mounting passion.

Fury at Lord Baelish for doing this to her… but fury at herself for, for… 

No. 

She wouldn’t even think it. 

But she did. 

_Wanting it? Wanting him?_

Littlefinger smacked her particularly hard on the underside of her cheek and she howled, but the sensation coursed through her body as if sending a message to her mind – and her flower. She couldn’t tell where pain ended and pleasure began, where fear gave way to yearning. 

_He_ masterminded all of it. Handed it to her, coaxed it from her, shared it with her. 

_Lord Petyr Baelish._ She thought his name, and passion swept through her as much as anger. She despised him… yet she _desired_ him.

“Do you think any other husband would know what you need, how to please you?” he asked, as he continued hitting her bottom. 

Sansa cringed, imagining his view. She was sure her backside must be even redder than her face. 

Tears welled in her eyes, but the physical agony was only a small part. She felt like something had built up in her for so long – years maybe – and somehow over Lord Baelish’s knees it could finally be released, accepted. 

Yet she couldn’t let it. She wouldn’t let herself cry. 

When her wails morphed into shrieks, however, she would beg. 

“Stop, Petyr. Please, stop!” 

He didn’t. Not right away. 

“Lord Baelish, please, stop,” Sansa panted, between yelps. She couldn’t take any more. “I’m begging you, please.” 

Finally, he did. But he didn’t allow her to rise. 

Sansa fought to catch her breath. She felt as if her bottom were on fire and would never cool down. 

Her attention was immediately called away from the fact when Petyr slid his fingers up the length of her flower and it was obvious to them both that she was soaked. 

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut, reflexively hiding, even though he couldn’t see her face. 

“I’ll ask you again, _Sansa,”_ Lord Baelish said calmly, “do you think any other husband would have the slightest idea what to do with you?” 

Sansa gasped when he marked his words by thrusting two fingers inside her. 

He withdrew them, and she was mortified to feel herself dripping onto her own thighs. 

Lord Baelish sighed, impatiently. 

“Stand up.” 

Sansa wasn’t sure she heard correctly. 

“Stand up. Take off your gown. Lie down on the bed.” 

Sansa stood, barely able to look at Littlefinger as she declared, “I won’t do what you want, just because you want it. I’m not a whore in one of your brothels.” 

“No. You’re to be my wife. You’ll do what I want because both of us want it.” 

Sansa’s mouth fell open, but no witty reply came out. 

“I do prefer watching you struggle as you will yourself to obey,” Littlefinger’s mouth set in a sinister line, eyes gleamed with mischief. “But I can bring you around by other means, if necessary.” 

He reached out and touched the shackles on her wrists. Sansa had grown so used to their presence, she’d forgotten he’d interrupted her before continuing to remove them.

Sansa shook her head, angrily, but moved beside the bed. It was better to suffer whatever he intended on her own terms, than chained down. Or as near to her own terms as could be had with Petyr. 

With a breath to steel herself, Sansa removed her dress. 

She heard a rustle behind her, and turned, surprised to find Lord Baelish disrobing as well. 

The momentary satisfaction she had from _finally,_ no longer being the only one naked, was quickly replaced by terror. 

_She was no longer the only one naked._

“Sansa,” he said her name again, and she hated that she liked the way it sounded from his lips. “Only by admitting what we are can we get what we want.” 

Petyr stripped off the last of his clothing, and Sansa couldn’t help it…

Her eyes darted downward. Past his short torso – Lord Baelish wasn’t an overly tall man – over his trim hips, to the length of his _very_ erect manhood. 

Nervous, Sansa licked her dry lips. Realizing he might take the act to mean something else entirely, she quickly covered her mouth with her hand. 

Then, recognizing that _that_ gesture could be interpreted as one of shock _(delight?)_ at his member, she let out a gasp of frustration and quickly turned away. 

“Sansa. Come here. Kiss me,” he commanded. 

When she didn’t move he added, “Do you need me to spank you again?” 

Sansa let out an embarrassed huff. She looked, and failed, to find the trick in his demand. It was just a kiss, right? She turned, refusing to let her eyes drift downward, and took a step back towards Petyr. 

Slowly, she parted her lips in offering. 

Lord Baelish slid his tongue into her mouth without hesitation or restraint, and the only thing that startled Sansa more was how she responded to his need. He kissed her like he’d been aching to do it for a long time. He kissed her like a claiming. He held her face with one hand, the other reaching to encircle her waist, pull her closer. His lips and tongue were soft, but the hair from his moustache rough; contradictory and confusing, just like the man. 

_“Mmfp,”_ a muffled moan escaped Sansa’s lips and her hips pressed against him, on their own accord. 

Petyr broke the kiss, not abruptly, but sooner than she expected, and Sansa wondered if she’d just done something wrong. 

_No… I mean, right,_ she chided herself. Getting him to stop is what I want, it’s _right._

“Lie down on the bed,” he whispered. 

Sansa climbed onto the bed, less in an effort to obey and more to put distance between them. 

She struggled to keep her eyes averted. She’d never seen a man fully naked so close, and definitely not one that looked like him. The slight-but-fit build of his body appealed to her on a deep level. 

“I – Lord Baelish, you can’t mean to bed me until we’re married,” she protested, falling back on proper behavior. Let that be her armor. 

“I won’t bed you until you ask me.”

He said it so sincerely, Sansa let out a sigh of relief, until he amended,

“At least, not the first time.” 

“Then you will never bed me at all,” she replied. 

“No?” 

He seemed unconcerned. 

“Lie down.” 

“But you said-”

“Lie down.” 

Sansa rested against the pillow. He climbed into bed beside her. 

“Spread your legs.” 

“Will this be marriage with you Lord Baelish? Always commanding me to do things?” 

_“Yes.”_

His voice, low and husky, gave her chills. 

“Will this be marriage with you, Lady Sansa? Always protesting my commands?” 

Sansa dared to look at him now. His eyes. Not an inch lower. She opened her legs and he moved between them. 

“It doesn’t seem to matter, does it?” she asked. 

“No,” his lips curled into his half-grin. “Not in having those orders come to pass. But in sharing with you the delight in getting there-”

Lord Baelish inserted his finger into her and she groaned in spite of herself.

“-it makes all the difference.” 

Petyr began sliding in and out of her, and if Sansa thought it enjoyable before, back on the boat, it was pleasurable beyond her comprehension now. Now, her body was ready, every nerve ending alive and wanting to be touched. Lord Baelish reached up with his free hand, cupping her breast and she arched into the warmth of his palm. Hiding her desire was pointless, but she still felt embarrassed as she moaned, as her hips began to lift to meet his other hand. 

How could he do these things to her body? He was at once Lord Baelish - proper, polite, self-possessed. But another side revealed itself with her – base, raw, sensual. 

Is that what he saw in her?

Sansa felt like she was spinning, higher, higher. Her hands flailed, searching for something to grasp. Him?

He ceased caressing her breasts, and she immediately missed the warmth of his hand. But he did so only because he moved closer, his mouth finding her sensitive nub and clamping down. Sansa gave a small scream at the jolt of ecstasy running through her, as Lord Baelish moved his fingers in and out while he licked and sucked at the same time.

Her body shook, Sansa was sure she was losing her mind. Higher and higher. 

Something built up, deep within her belly. 

Littlefinger withdrew his mouth slightly, and Sansa bucked, searching for the lost pleasure. She was moving, climbing, flying somewhere, and she needed his tongue to continue. He didn’t stop trusting his fingers, but he slowed down.

“Only by admitting what we are can we get what we want,” he repeated. 

He punctuated the remark with a curl of his finger, eliciting a gasp from Sansa. 

“I – what? _Please.”_

That’s what he sought before, back on the ship. For her to admit that she wanted it, right? 

He responded by placing two fingers inside her, but without a hard or fast enough friction to help her continue to climb, only enough to keep her hovering in that dizzying, heightened state. 

What did he want from her? What did he _want?_

What did _she_ want? 

This? Marriage to Lord Baelish and endless nights of this? She could barely grapple with _one_ night, let alone thousands. 

And yet at the idea, something fluttered in her heart, like a bird beating its wings.

A _mockingbird,_ came the delirious notion. 

She couldn’t possibly think with – he moved his fingers a bit faster – _oh, the ecstasy._

It wasn’t fair, he didn’t play fair. 

Petyr leaned down again, flicking his tongue at her, teasingly. Sansa’s hands found his hair. Short, the barest hint of coarseness. Perfect. 

Sansa was so close it was painful. Her heart raced. She felt like she was coming to an edge. She would die if she kept going, she would die if she didn’t. The muscles in her legs tightened. 

But Littlefinger continually withdrew and returned his mouth, keeping her in this dizzying state. 

“Only by admitting what we are can we get what we want,” he whispered a third time. 

And suddenly, with a finality so sharp, she could almost hear it, so abrupt she could almost feel it - Sansa knew. 

All her posturing, all her protesting, it was all pointless. The bird fluttered wildly about her heart in a yearning so deep it was painful. 

_He’d_ always known. He just waited for her to catch up. 

She closed her eyes. 

“Yours,” she breathed. 

She would have said anything to get him resume such delirious ecstasy, even the hardest thing of all. 

The truth. 

_“I’m yours, Lord Baelish.”_

Sansa had just enough wits left about her to imagine he smirked at that, before seizing her flower once more in his mouth. He pushed his fingers back inside and recontinued their rhythmic thrusting. 

Sansa could have wept in relief. The dual pleasure brought her to a state of rapture she couldn’t have possibly imagined before, even after she cast off the naiveté of her youth. 

Crying out, legs shaking, Sansa came for the first time ever, coaxed by Lord Baelish’s tongue. 

And as the waves of pleasure subsided… the feeling in her heart didn’t. 

Her _heart._

_Seven hells. It was true._

“I’m yours, Lord Baelish,” she whispered, still half-delirious, as he climbed up beside her and pulled her into the circle of his arms. She curled into protective cocoon of his body. 

“I’m yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this story! Please leave a comment, as I'd love to hear from any readers. It makes me so happy to get feedback and share the fandom. I was very nervous to post this. 
> 
> I've been working on a mini epilogue, of sorts, since it ends abruptly. Just a very short summary I might post later, if I can get it right. 
> 
> Lastly, I wanted to share an 80's love song playlist (bae-list?) to get everyone through the (possibly) Bae-less, season 8. Many of these songs are cheesy, but made me think of our beloved ship as they played. Of course, there's more than one lyric that applies, sometimes it's the whole song, but I highlighted what caught my ear.
> 
> 1) If You Were Here - Thompson Twins  
> Line: "If you were here, I could deceive you / If you were here, you would believe"  
> 2) Father Figure - George Michael  
> Line: All of them, really, though it's slightly creepy to apply  
> 3) In the Air Tonight - Phil Collins  
> Line: "Wipe off that grin / I know where you've been / It's all been a pack of lies"  
> 4) (I Just) Died in Your Arms Tonight - Cutting Crew  
> Line: "On the surface I'm a name on a list / I try to be discreet but then blow it again"  
> 5) Making Love Out Of Nothing At All - Air Supply  
> Lines: "I know just where to find the answers / And I know just how to lie / I know just how to fake it  
> And I know just how to scheme" Also, "I know all the rules and then I know how to break 'em / And I always know the name of the game /But I don't know how to leave you"  
> 6) Slave to Love - Bryan Ferry  
> Line: "The sky is burning / A sea of flame / Though your world is changing / I will be the same"  
> 7) Careless Whisper - George Michael  
> Line: "Though it's easy to pretend / I know you're not a fool / Should've known better than to cheat a friend / And waste the chance that I've been given" **For his lovely whisper  
> 8) Hungry Eyes - Eric Carmen  
> Line: "Now I've got you in my sights / With these hungry eyes" **For any LF look of longing  
> 9) Summertime - The Sundays  
> Line: "& it's you & me in the summertime / We'll be hand in hand down in the park / With a squeeze & a sigh & that twinkle in your eye" **For when LF speaks with Sansa in the gardens of King's Landing, taking her hand  
> 10) I Will Never Be The Same - Melissa Etheridge  
> Line: "So you walked with me for a while / Bared your naked soul / And you told me of your plan / How you would never let them know"  
> 11) Fortress Around Your Heart - Sting  
> Line: "And if I've built this fortress around your heart / Encircled you in trenches and barbed wire / Then let me build a bridge, for I cannot fill the chasm / And let me set the battlements on fire" **This is how I imagine LF could see Sansa, after what he's done


End file.
